Where The Veil Is The Thinnest

by Sylvia Ng (Singapore)

A leap into the unknown Nepal

𝘈𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵- 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵. There are a few kinds of people when they enter a room filled with strangers. One who blends unassumingly in the crowd, one who avoids a locked eye contact and one who lights up the entire room into a symphonic mirth. Isma was the last. Everyone who had been in that room or experienced his contagious energy in their life would vouch for that. Isma was that person who articulated a passion and excitement for life that renders anyone spellbound. “Have you been to Nepal?” Isma asked enthusiastically over texts. “Wanna trek with me?” Bonded over our passion for travel and adventure, Isma and I were diving instructors working in Thailand and Maldives respectively. In our profession, we explored the depths of the ocean but we also shared an equal, profound reverence for the mountains. Earlier that month, Isma turned 33. The age of Jesus when he died,” Isma added facetiously, when I asked how old he was. Probably with a grin plastered across his face, his sense of humor was classic and distasteful- even over texts. Our trek never happened, but his funeral did. It was the 9th of December, seven months since his departure from our physical world. I stood quietly at the foothill of Kyanjin Gompa, a charming village set in the plains of Langtang Valley, a northern region of Nepal. It was the twilight moment as the last vestiges of light disappeared over the towering, snow-crested mountains. In the distance, a dash of lavender softened in the sky. It was as if, in that blatant silence, a conversation transpired. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰. I thought. My eyes welled. Earlier that evening, we had descended from Kyanjin Ri which stood at 4779m- one of the few peaks reachable in the Langtang region. We had been trekking for four days along Langtang river as our journey deepened into the valleys of the Himalayas. Our guide Ganga, led us purposefully at a comfortable pace, as we traversed through the alpine forests, rugged ravines, into the elevated plains. The fear of altitude sickness at the back of our mind. That night we sat around the fireplace as Ganga discussed his plan for the next day. “We could either stay and explore the village of Kyanjin Gompa or we could attempt Chokari Ri.” Ganga suggested, as he took a glance my way. “We must,” I answered, my voice quavering in the dank room. “Chokari Ri was why I came to Nepal for.” My eyes resolute as I handed him a piece of paper. My travel companion Denise, flashed an empathetic gaze and nodded in unanimity. Deep down I knew, difficult was not an apt word to describe that final ascent. Our agenda was a 1200m elevation, up and down, in a single day. It was Chokari Ri at 5050m. 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 felt like an understatement too. The air hung unfavorably thin as Denise struggled ahead with her frequent stops. My prickled knees trudged on, my mind a stoic dialogue. It had been the seventh hour of our dogged Chokari Ri pursuit. There were frequent moments where words fell short for me with Nepal’s compelling landscapes. However, never once had I felt the urge to give up. Perhaps it was the thought that I was approaching the highest point where the veil between the physical and spiritual world stood the thinnest. But the hot tears never seemed apologetic when they fell from my eyes anyway. Soon the prayer flags came in sight. Artfully draped between several wooden poles, their striking colours posed in the wind. The surrounding mountains stood poignantly stark against the clear skies like a contrasting canvas, sentinels to the passage of time. My legs finally buckled as I dropped to my knees, my body shaking into a quiet sob. I took the paper out of my pocket and edged toward the centre of the peak. Carefully wedged between the stacked rocks and prayer flags, was the paper I came to deliver. A promise to the skies, written in bold, 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘐𝘴𝘮𝘢.